When the Impala breaks down in a snowstorm, Dean and Jo are forced to take shelter in a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere. It may be cold outside, but tempers are flaring things are about to heat up...and not because of the fireplace! Dean/Jo OS

A/N: I don't know about y'all, but holidays in my family can be somewhat...umm...let's go with colorful. This year was no exception. Stressful or not, I think we can all agree nothing beats a little holiday smut...

Merry Christmas and/or Happy Hanukkah to all my girls! Whatever you celebrate - stephaniew, Silverspoon, WelshWitch1011, cheekymonster2, angeleyenc, Heatherlina, Wynefred, FallenAngel218, CFEditor and celeste301 - each of you make me feel blessed to be a part of the SPN fandom. My Christmas wish is that your 2012s are as bright as you've made my 2011...thanks for a great year, ladies!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

It starts with fat, downy flakes drifting like feathers from the midnight sky and melting on the hood of his baby. Whimsical and serene as the shower of glitter in a snow globe, they float weightlessly around the quickly moving vehicle. It's perfect. Quiet.

"Let's stop for the night," she suggests.

Minutes tick by into hours. He's determined to make it back to the Singer homestead and the rest of their family. Determined not to spend Christmas on the road now that they're finally together.

He can taste Bobby's kettle fried turkey breast, his mouth beginning to water. He can hear Ellen fussing over how messy the kitchen is as she works on the fixings, the scent of homemade cranberry sauce and oranges filling the air. And Pie. Please let there be pie.

His thoughts elsewhere, he's oblivious to the transition of large flakes to finer, heavier snowfall. He switches on the wipers and they're brushed away with a gentle swish. He looks over at her, smiling softly at the way her cheeks are pinkened by the heat of the air blowing in her face. She's beautiful. More importantly, she's alive.

Stubbornly, he ignores her and passes through town. The lights grow dim and fade like the glow in the eyes of an abandoned toy whose batteries are dying. The road stretches before them, a black and white ribbon in the Impala's headlights. They continue their journey even as the snow sticks to road signs and the grass at the feet of their poles.

Leaning over, she surveys the gauges on the dash. They're running low on fuel and their speed is dropping as visibility grows poor. She reaches for the knob on the radio and shifts the signal to AM. Searching for a weather report, she meets Dean's stare with a glare of her own. Driver picks the music, shotgun doesn't wanna get caught in a snowstorm.

"Turn around," she demands. He doesn't yield. Doesn't bother to comment. His hands just tighten on the steering wheel. Anger rolls through her. "Dammit, Dean. We're almost a hundred miles from the next town, we have a quarter of a tank of gas and you're driving into a fucking blizzard."

"Jo, we'll be fine. I know what I'm doin'. If it still looks bad, we'll stop for the night when we gas up, okay?" He shakes his head, propping his elbow on the doorframe and rubbing his forehead. "Jesus. Nag, nag, nag. You're worse than Sam and your mother...combined!"

"You're unbelievable!" she huffs, turning to stare out the passenger window.

More time passes. A dense wall of flakes cascade from the sky and swirl over the glazed asphalt, crunching beneath the tires. Pine trees covered in a blanket of snow create tiny mountains that bank both sides of the road. Everything is bathed in a bright, glistening white.

They're alone in their travels. Anybody with a lick of sense is home under the covers. It isn't pure or romantic. It doesn't remind him of childhood memories of taking Sam sledding or driving the streets looking at Christmas lights with his old man. It's treacherous. Dangerous. Deadly. And, stealing a glance at the woman sitting at the opposite end of the bench seat, Dean Winchester knows he's a fool.

Jo Harvelle hasn't said a word for over 70 miles. Not since she told him to turn around. Not since he accused her of being a worrywart. She'd switched the radio off and he was afraid of what she'd do if he turned it back on. He needed music. Preferably Zeppelin. He can't help but smile remembering her comment about cheap beer and Zeppelin IV. He sneaks a look at her only to have her wipe the grin from his face with an icy stare. Her brow furrowed and mouth puckered, she turns her face to the window. Definitely Ellen Harvelle's daughter.

From the corner of his eye, he watches as she crosses her arms and shivers, pulling her heavy coat tighter around her. The heater went out 20 minutes ago. But he'd decided they were too far into the storm to turn back. That they'd be fine. They just needed to get his baby to a gas station and...

The car sputters beneath them, the steering wheel shaking in his palms as the headlights flicker and go out. He's barely able to coast off the roadway and keep from hitting any trees.

"Fuck!" he yells, angrily slamming his hands on the leather wrapping.

Jo doesn't flinch. She doesn't move to help him or say anything.

Dean growls through clenched teeth. He yanks on his gloves - the ones he stubbornly refused to don even as the temperature in the car began to drop - and reaches for the door handle after popping the hood.

She gets out of the car, flashlight in hand and walks up beside him. "I'm pretty sure you could screw around under there all night and we'd still be stuck out here" she bites.

"Get back in the car, Harvelle," he growls.

"And freeze my ass off?" she asks. "No thanks, Deano."

He pays little attention to her barb, instead bending beneath the hood examining the engine and belts as though they held the answers to the most important questions in the universe. The door slams, followed by the trunk. Crossing his arms, he rounds the side of the vehicle. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Jo's eyes go wide and she blinks at him. "No cell service here, jackass," she says, holding up her phone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Supernatural ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Soaked through to the skin, the chill is bone deep when Jo steps onto the porch of the tiny cabin. She knocks on the door. "Hello?" she calls out. "Is anyone here?"

"Nobody's gonna be up here this time of year. These are probably for camping," Dean says screwing up his face.

Yanking the duffel bag from his arms, she takes the lock picks from the side pocket. In less than a minute, they're inside. She flicks the switches. Nothing. No light. No anything. It's only slightly warmer than outside.

Jo throws the duffel on the floor. Shivering, she stoops down and yanks the zipper. Her clothes are missing. She'd grabbed Dean's bag from the trunk not hers. Normally wearing her boyfriend's clothes would almost be preferable - especially the worn blue flannel shirt beneath her fingertips. Now it just makes her angry not to have dry clothes of her own.

Dean looks at Jo, his mouth dropping open as he considers what to say.

"Don't," she says, sliding her hands over her hair. "I just..." she pauses. "I can't deal with you right now." She walks away. Walks into the other room and slams the door.

He flinches as though he's been struck. He messed up. Big time. Walking outside, he scrounges up some firewood. The least he could do is build a fire for her. Make her warm.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Supernatural ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jo strips out of her wet clothes. Falling into the pond had been the icing on a horrible evening, though it had at least lead them to the trail the cabin was on. She slips into a pair of Dean's boxers and the flannel shirt. Tears sting her eyes. She just wants to be home.

She explores the room. There are a few blankets stacked at the end of the old mattress. In the trunk at it's foot, she finds a few more. Gathering her damp clothes in one hand, she wraps her arm around the stack of blankets.

When she enters the living area, she's met by the warmth of a fire in the hearth. She spreads her clothes out in front of the heat source and shakes one of the blankets out, wrapping it around her shoulders.

Dean stands at the window, watching the snow fall in the moonlight. His hands on his hips, his ears perk when Jo comes into the room. Taking a deep breath, he turns to look at her.

Jo kneels in front of the hearth, her wet clothes scattered in front of the fire to dry. She stirs the smoldering wood with the poker and stares at the flames. At least they were out of the snow.

Dean approaches from behind. She can hear the fall of his boots against the aged hardwood flooring. He sighs heavily, and begins, "This isn't what I wanted."

"You think I wanted this?" she asks, turning to face him. "I'm the one that told you to pull over."

"That's not what I meant and you know it, Jo," he says as he takes a spot on the floor near her. He rubs the back of his neck and ruffles his hands through his hair. Damn chick flick moments. "It's Christmas Eve," he tells her. "And for the first time forever I was looking forward to it. I wanted things to be different. For both of us."

The sincerity in his voice makes her shiver. Her earlier ire melts away. This confession isn't one easily made. Shaking her head, she smiles softly. "Don't you get it?" she asks him. "It is different. We're together. And I wasn't sure you'd ever..."

"Jo..." Dean moves to his knees in front of her, their chests not quite brushing as he looks at her. Her eyes drop to the floor, her plump lower lip quivering as the fire continues to warm her. Even with her damp, tangled hair she's radiant. Irresistibly magnetic. Her positive energy sticks to him and holds the negative force that has become his life at bay.

He leans closer and her eyes drift closed as his palms smooth over her cheeks, his fingers gliding into the golden strands that hang around her face. But he doesn't give her the kiss she anticipates. Instead, he kisses her forehead. Dusts his lips over both of her eyelids and the tip of her nose. Inching closer he angles her mouth beneath his, feeling his heart pound against his ribs at her gasp.

Releasing the blanket from her shoulders, Jo wraps her arms around him. Her tongue dances against his and she whimpers as Dean's grip tightens. Ever his partner and equal, she challenges him, returning his passion.

"I love you," he murmurs. "I don't say it nearly enough, but I do."

"I know... I can feel it," she says, closing her eyes as his fingers skim down her neck to the line of buttons at her chest. She hums softly when his mouth slants over hers again. She meets every swirl, lap and stroke of his tongue as he begins to open the worn flannel.

Drawing back from her for a moment, his eyes drift to the buttons and back to hers as his hands begin working the fastenings. One at a time, he frees the disks from their places. His eyes don't leave hers. They don't dance to her cleavage or fondle her slim waist. They hold her entire being in a loving embrace.

She shivers in the firelight as the warm air of the living room wraps around her. His hands slip between the collar of her shirt and her shoulders to strip the garment away, fingertips sliding over her chest teasingly. Jo gasps as Dean's fingers trail over her taut nipples. The press of his mouth to hers sends a shock of warmth rocketing through her core. Heat blossoms within her as his hands come to cup her face.

He spreads the blanket on the floor and settles her on it as he kneels in front of her. He spreads her knees apart, leaning over her to suck the stiff peak of one of her nipples into his mouth and she moans in a combination of agony and bliss at the sensation. His tongue laves gently, mouth holding firmly when she tries to pull away. He gives the other side equal attention before setting back on his heels.

A slow smile spreads over his face as he lifts her leg from the floor. He kisses her ankle and calf, making a slight detour to lap at the sensitive flesh behind her knee. There's a little spot that always makes her giggle right before she moans.

Her body throbs with every caress, every flicker of his tongue. "Dean," she purrs. "Please..."

When she says his name like that, he has to remind himself this isn't a race. Especially now with the glow of the fire dancing shadows over her soft supple skin. "Soon," he murmurs against the skin of her thigh. "First I wanna get you nice and warm..."

Dean's mouth on her cool skin is scorching. She can feel her body temperature rising. She squirms, wiggling beneath his hands as he takes his shorts off of her. He pulls his shirt off quickly and tosses it aside. The firm heat of his shoulders and torso brushing against her is intoxicating.

Tonight, they are fire and ice. Everything he does warms her. Makes her melt. Turn into a puddle. Her heart pounds as she watches him remove his pants. Squeezes almost painfully at how gorgeous he is with the light of the flames licking over his firm, naked skin in paths her tongue is desperate to taste.

He slips slowly - carefully - up her body, coming to rest over her. Reaching, he grabs another blanket from the pile and spreads it over them in a warm cocoon. He nudges to fit against her, but not into her. Not yet.

She locks a leg around his trying to send him a message. Trying to let him know she's ready. That she needs him to warm her from the inside in a way only he ever has.

Dean kisses her throat. His lips move with surety as his hands delve into her hair to angle her mouth for his kiss. He feels the shift in her, feels her skin warm beneath the heat of his own. He feels the need building and coiling.

Threading a hand between them, he strokes her. He tests her with his fingers as his tongue ravages her mouth. He can't hold back a grin at the way she feels - slick, hot and wet - for him. Always for him. Even when she's mad. Even when she's cold and shivering. Her body can do this. It can be incredibly inviting.

She nods against his mouth. Nods in submission. Gives him silent permission to take her any way he sees fit. So long as it's now.

He angles her hips to align them. Angles so he can make the first thrust count. And it does. He can tell. Her body throbs around his and she sucks hard at his lower lip. He'd bet that her toes curled.

She moves with him. Encourages him to move in her. She can feel everything as though her senses are super-heightened. She feels it in her fingers and her toes. Feels it in the curve of her spine as she arcs beneath him. In the curve of her hip where his fingers dig in gripping her and holding her tightly to his every movement.

"Oh, God," she moans, her eyes slamming shut. "Yes!"

He caresses her face, tilting her chin up to remind her seeing her eyes is his favorite part. He loves to drown in them as she climaxes. Loves to watch her careen over the edge and tumble into the abyss. This time is no different.

Only it is. It's different because the love in her eyes consumes him. It fills his chest and sets flame to his hips as he picks up the pace. He plunges into her hard and deep, dragging her legs around his waist as he swallows her moans in a series of hungry kisses.

Shifting - wanting to prolong the delicious ripples of pleasure bubbling through her - she pushes him onto his back. Riding him slowly, she watches wickedly as his eyes focus on the sway of her breasts in the glow of the fire. She guides his hands to them, smoothing his touch over her skin. A harsh moan escapes her lips as he tugs her down as he thrusts upward.

He sits up needing to feel her mouth on his, needing to taste the way she calls out his name. He drags her lips to his, his tongue dancing between them. "Jo..." he moans.

"Dean..." she moans back.

"Jo..." he growls.

She feels him tense. Feels him go rigid beneath her. Feels the way he clings to her as though she were the most precious thing in the world. She shivers and finds him kissing her again.

"Still cold?" he asks, his fingers curling into her hair as his tongue flickers across his lower lip.

She presses her forehead against his. "A little," she answers softly.

Sitting up, he spreads another blanket around her before using the poker to stir the fire and adding another log. He settles beside her, pillowing his head with his arm and pulling her against his chest.

Jo thinks about getting up and putting his shirt on. Deciding skin to skin contact is best - absorbing each other's body heat and generating more - she sighs and curls tightly against him. "Hey, Dean?"

His thumb brushes her cheek and he leans in to kiss her softly. "Yeah, babe?" he asks, tangling their fingers together over his heart.

She looks at their joined hands before meeting his eyes. "Merry Christmas."

Dean chuckles, rolling half over her and slipping his fingers into her hair. He kisses her slowly, softly. He nuzzles his nose against hers. Their eyes meeting, he whispers, "Yeah, it is. Possibly the best ever."

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